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Look—who salutes the coffin— lays a wreath of remembrance on the box where a buck private sleeps a clean dry sleep at last— look—it is the highest ranking general of the officers of the armies of the Republic.

(Among pigeon corners of the Congressional Library—they file documents quietly, casually, all in a day's work—this human document, the buck private nobody knows the name of—they file away in granite and steel—with music and roses, salutes, proclamations of the honorable orators.) Across the country, between two ocean shore lines, where cities cling to rail and water routes, there people and horses stop in their foot tracks, cars and wagons stop in their wheel tracks— faces at street crossings shine with a silence of eggs laid in a row on a pantry shelf— among the ways and paths of the flow of the Republic faces come to a standstill, sixty clockticks count— in the name of the Boy, in the name of the Republic.

(A million faces a thousand miles from Pennsylvania Avenue   stay frozen with a look, a clocktick, a moment—    skeleton riders on skeleton horses—the nickering high horse laugh, 44